


Where the Spirit Meets the Bones

by Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Darkening of Valinor, Helcaraxë, I said I wasn't going to write a bildungsroman and then that's exactly what I did, M/M, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, This basically spans their entire relationship, pinch hit for pastelpinkcheeks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost
Summary: It was so easy to fall back into orbit of each other as if they had never stopped.  But how different they are now, carrying the weight of their worries and their guilts and their fears.(Maedhros and Fingon reminisce on what they have lost and what they have become)
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 18
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	1. Magnificently Cursed

**Author's Note:**

> This is filed under Major Character Death, but I felt I should give a better trigger warning for somewhat gorey descriptions of the Nirnaeth and Fingon’s death, and a general content warning for the moments leading up to Maedhros’ death.
> 
> This fic is inspired by Ivy, by Taylor Swift. Give it a listen if you like, to set the mood.
> 
> I’m a sucker for disconnected timelines. Basically, a theme in this fic is memory, and I wanted to explore how we remember things, or how we connect different portions of our history narratively based on what we have/lack. I was also interested in memories replayed as dreams; I don’t personally dream of my past, but in general, dreams are a way for people to digest the events in their waking lives. Also, dreams are subjective not objective, and I was interested to explore the differences in the subjective ways these characters think about their objective lives.
> 
> General note that this fic does not comply with LaCE, and some of my headcanons on the topic of marriage bonds and ósanwe were inspired by a lovely fic I read (by SpaceWall I think).

_ I wish to know the fatal flaw that makes you want to be magnificently cursed. _

Fingon looks out into the dark. The meager expanse of ice lit by the caribou-dung fire flickers with shadow. It is very cold on the grinding ice, and there is precious little to eat. Fingon takes a moment to probe his bond to Maedhros. He reaches out with his mind, tracing the bond like one who traces a rope from the shelter to the stable in a blizzard. Since the burning of the ships, it has lain dormant, but Fingon can feel it like a string of honey stretched thin. If the bond exists, Maedhros is alive - and maybe he can hear him, even if he doesn’t speak. 

“We’ve run out of feed for the horses,” he thinks conversationally, “So we’ve begun eating them. We take the bones miles from the camp to throw them into the sea - offal attracts things that prefer the warm flesh of elves to the cold bones of horses.” He knows his rational tone would hurt Maedhros more than cursing - if he were even listening.

Fingon takes to “talking” to Maedhros often. His only reply is the howling of the wind, but he doesn’t really have anyone else to talk to. Sometimes, when he needs a place to scream without interruption, he wanders off to the edge of camp (as far as he dares before his solitude tempts the great beasts in the water). He tells Maedhros of this as well - how they took Elenwë, and how Turgon wouldn’t look at him for anger after Fingon had pulled him out of his doomed heroic plunge into the water. 

They rest infrequently. He sleeps in fits with Aredhel in his arms to keep her warm. He always wakes with his back pressed to Turgon, crying in his sleep, with little Idril in his arms. 

Fingon dreams of the death of the trees. 

He can feel the panic that rises in the crowd when the light fails. The younger elves have never seen a truly dark sky, and the older elves are thrown back to a time when they lived like prey and strange forms moved in the dark. 

It is under this new dark sky that they discover the unthinkable: a dead grandfather and a house destroyed. When Fingon and Maedhros fight their way through the boiling crowds of Tirion, they discover their fathers bent over Finwë’s broken body, Finarfin in the doorway with little Orodreth pressed to his breast to shield his eyes. Fingon wonders if this is the first time in his life that he’s seen their fathers hold each other.

His dreams of the funeral are as awful as the real thing. Fëanor is the only one of the young generations to have a precedent for mourning. The shadows cast by his funeral pyre are long, and their fingers grasp at the mourners. Valinor begins to mark time in terms of before and after the vanishing of the light, but for this family, their lives are delineated into the time before and after Finwë’s death. 

In the streets, whispers of revolt against the valar turn into words spoken aloud and shouting in the streets. Fëanor’s speech in the marketplace unsettles the last bit of rhythm in their lives. Something is coming, and they are not sure they can stop it, or if they even want to. 

Fingon dreams of those liminal days before their departure, and the pinched expression on Maedhros’ face when they were alone together. His grief and pride prevent him from remaining behind, and in his mind his desires don’t factor into his decision. He is not exactly unwilling to go, but of anyone, he carries the most weight in his obligation to his father. 

Fingon is keen to go, he will not be parted from Maedhros. He tries to raise his spirits with talk of adventure, but he knows what Maedhros’ purpose - what Fëanor’s purpose - is, and it isn’t half so light-hearted. Maedhros is ready to crumble, torn between upholding what his father needs of him and what he needs for himself.

He dreams of how they steal away from those interminable state dinners that always end in their fathers shouting, the ones where the alcohol is strong and tensions are high. 

Both of them should be there as first-born sons, but instead Fingon has Maedhros on his hands and knees on his bed in the guest wing. Maedhros looks young, Fingon thinks idly as he presses a line of kisses down his spine, and very tired. His facade at the meetings is so solid that Fingon may be the only one who is privy to this side of Maedhros, the side that begs Fingon to grip his hips with a strength revealed in bruises the next day.

Maedhros moves as if to stroke himself, and Fingon bats his hand away. He should have known that Maedhros really just wanted the denial, because as soon as he does this, Maedhros turns his face into the pillow and groans. 

Almost too softly for Fingon to hear, spoken between one soft breath and the next, Maedhros whispers “What if I go with my father?”

Fingon waits a moment, and then with a decisive snap of his hips says “Then I will go with you.”

“I can’t ask that of you.” He is ever the courtly prince, and Fingon supposes he would deny himself air if he thought it would be strategic.

Fingon bends low over his lover, placing kisses at the nape of his neck. His braids swing like a curtain over them. He feels something strange, something wild and daring, forcing the words out of him. “Can you ask it of your husband?”

Maedhros’ hips stutter in their low roll, and he cries out, hopeful and desirous. His voice shakes when he says “Would you?”

Fingon says, “I would,” and that is all it takes for Maedhros to find release. 

Fingon dreams of what happened after, wrapped in Maedhros’ arms. 

“How do you suppose I go about marrying you?” murmurs Fingon, playing with the red strands of hair plastered to his breast. 

“I suppose it would be something like this,” rumbles Maedhros, who grips Fingon’s hand and reaches out tentatively with ósanwe. This type is new to Fingon, nothing like the little messages and impressions they learned to send in their boyhood. But he can feel Maedhros’ consciousness like a candle. I offer myself to you, Fingon says with his mind; I offer myself to you, Maedhros says in return. Their bond, forged in love and fear, solidifies. To them, this candle-lit room is a steady boat adrift in dark water. 

Fingon wakes in the night to see his father still sitting at the flaps of the tent, back to the fire, spear in hand, guarding against the night and the screaming that occasionally pierced the dark and the howl of the wind. Fingon wonders if the same fey light that possessed Fëanor has taken hold of his father, who will hear nothing of talk of turning around. But then, Fingon thinks, perhaps going forward is easier for everyone than the thought of going back. And going back won’t bring back what they’ve lost.

Fingon has just about tired of prodding at his husband after these interminable months. He doesn’t expect his bond to open suddenly, held strong across the distance through massive effort. It feels like a rush of love, deep and un-abating. There is fear beneath it, tamped down firmly by what Fingon would not call bravery but rather resignation. Something is deeply wrong, and it spreads across the bond like rot. He’s still surprised when suddenly that string of honey snaps, and now he can’t feel even its echo. Then he faints into the snow.


	2. My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon comes to get Maedhros on Thangorodrim, and Maedhros dreams of Alqualondë

If Maedhros has one regret, it is that he will probably die with Fingon hating him. He would not blame Fingon for severing their bond; he would do it himself if he were selfless. As it happens, he is not selfless; and he holds onto his marriage like a precious thing, the last sacred thing left to him on this desolate mountain. 

Maedhros knows this is hypocritical, to selfishly hang onto something that at best puts Fingon in danger and at worst is something his husband retains only out of his sense of duty. He has closed his bond so tightly that he sometimes forgets it exists, and he feels shame for this as well. In the beginning, Sauron had pried open his mind, flaying it into ragged, weeping shreds, and he had hidden his bond so that Angband would not glean those shreds of information, of Fingon on the ice, of a second host of Noldor. If Maedhros had failed in his duty to his father, in his duty as a husband, and in his duty to his oath, he would not fail in this.

After all of this, Maedhros has lost count of the days, because there is no day, just starlight. No one will be coming for him, and he supposes it is what he deserves, for leaving Fingon. 

When he hears Fingon's singing, it feels like a cruel dream, one of the warped illusions Sauron sends on occasion. He refuses to open his mind, cursing his torturers, and himself - for he must have revealed Fingon to him. Maedhros feels something brush against his consciousness, and he cries tears that burn his cracked lips; it feels like a caress, it feels like home, it feels like his husband. His husband, whose mercy he does not deserve. 

He opens his mind briefly, letting out an anguished moan, asking Fingon to kill him. He supposes it is what he wants, or at the very least what is righteous. Fingon refuses, as he refuses to sever their bond, as he refuses to give up on Maedhros. Fingon - his better half, his heart, his husband. Then he knows only pain, and the beating of great wings. 

In the healing halls, Maedhros is gripped by fever. He dreams of those days after Alqualonde when they headed North together. 

In his dreams, Maedhros wakes in his cabin on the swan ships, and Fingon is not there. Despite feeling the hum of their connection in the back of his mind, he cannot find him. He makes his way onto the main deck, feeling the salt air sting his healing wounds. His eyes are drawn upward, and there is Fingon in the rigging, facing to the North. Something holds Maedhros back from calling out to him. Maedhros has never been the best of his brothers in the art of ósanwe, but he has the skill to probe Fingon's thoughts – unguarded, distressed - with a tendril of their bond. Above, Fingon makes no sound, but his thoughts flex and boil. "I must go on, I must go on, I must." 

Maedhros dreams of Fingon, how he rallies the Noldor and advocates so fiercely to continue - and how the words of that confident prince are so different from the ones of the scared boy in the rigging.

He dreams of those days of anticipation and fear, when he couldn’t find the words to reassure Fingon, or to confess the dark musings of his father on imagined treacheries and cowardices. Those nights when he sank to his knees in service and let his tongue say silently the things he couldn’t say aloud, when Fingon gripped him by the hair and whispered “Never leave me,” when Maedhros replied with half-promised assent. 

He dreams of how none of this did anything to prepare Fingon for the day he woke up to find Maedhros missing from his bedroll, his bedroll and pack missing from the tent, and all the boats missing from the harbor. How Fingon cannot feel Maedhros' mind - perhaps they are too far away, he tries to rationalize, to stave off that rising fear that perhaps he wasn’t enough. 

When his father burnt the ships, and Maedhros didn’t stop him, it wasn’t so much that Fingon saw the flames. What he saw was the light preceding the flames that spread up the wall of the heavens, rippling like a serpent and reflecting off the clouds and obscuring the stars. Then they came to realize that the clouds blowing westward carried not life but ash, and the snow that fell was grey and bitter. Maedhros knows these were Fingon’s thoughts because he had felt him, screaming with ósanwe into that terrible dark sky, hoping Maedhros heard him and his fury, and hoping Maedhros didn’t. 

When Maedhros is awake, thrashing and striking the nurses, he pleads for death. “Take my life, take my hand, take my crown,” he cries to Fingon, “It is your right.” Fingon tips cool water between his lips, combes his dull hair, says to Maedhros “Even if you do not deserve my mercy, you will have it anyway. If my love for you is bitter wine, drink deep.”


	3. Grieving for the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon dreams of pre-darkening Valinor, and considers how much the two of them have changed.

_ I just sit here and wait, grieving for the living.  _

In his father’s halls in Hithlum, Fingon dreams of an older time, a happier time, that he recalls only as flashes of color and sound. It is winter, and flurries of snow brush at the window panes. Fingon wears his best new cloak - the one of sapphire silk embroidered with flowers-of-an-hour - and does his best to look as if he is circling the room like the son of a good host, making conversation with all the guests. Maedhros is always in his periphery like an auburn-haired shadow. Even from his post in the corner where he attends to the twins and little Nerwen, carving them wolves to play with, he looks regal. He catches Fingon’s gaze, holds it for a long moment, and breaks into an easy grin. Under the weight of his gaze, Fingon feels like he circles not the room but Maedhros. 

Fingon is fetching a cup of mulled wine for Ëarwen when red hair brushes the side of his face. Maedhros brackets him against the refreshments table, one hand on Fingon’s shoulder and the other bunching the muslin tablecloth. Dream-Maedhros repeats that well-worn phrase, “Do you want to escape for a while?” his breath raising the hairs on Fingon’s neck. Fingon can imagine that smile, carefree, full of teeth.

“What about the -” 

“I foisted them off on Maglor,” Maedhros interjects. “Yes, love,” he continues when Fingon snorts. “I know you too well.” 

Fingon takes a glance around the room. True enough, precocious Nerwen is hanging off Maglor’s tunic, undoubtedly pleading for him to sing a tune that Finarfin would deem inappropriate. Finrod seems to be egging the two of them on. By the fire, Fëanor and Fingolfin are engaged in a discussion that miraculously remains amicable. He even sees the tension fall out of his own father’s shoulders - sees the hopeful light in his smile - when Fëanor laughs. Fingon knows he is dreaming, tries to commit to memory this echo of the past - the pleasant music, the lighthearted crowd, the way the firelight plays off the sinew of Maedhros’ hand. 

“I don’t suppose we will be missed,” Fingon replies, saying the words he’s said a hundred times in his sleep. “At least for a short while.” He follows the ghost of his footsteps out of the parlor and into the quiet dark of the corridor. He knows that footsteps will ring out on the flagstones, and that, laughing, Maedhros will pull him into a linen closet until the footfalls fade. He knows that Maedhros will chase him up the stairs and sweep him up into his arms on the landing, placing kisses along the ticklish line of Fingon’s neck. He knows that Maedhros will pull him into bed with the same enthusiasm as the first time, limbs long and boyish as he ruts against Fingon’s hip. He knows because he has dreamed a thousand times of the days when they were young and carefree, telperion shone through the window, and their faces were unlined by pain. 

Fingon wakes to an empty bed and the sun breaking through his windows to the east. A thousand miles away, Maedhros will be rising to meet the day; Fingon can feel the hum of his bond if he concentrates on it. 

How different they are, now. They are still an echo of how they were those decades ago, on that distant shore. Fingon had done his best to run through the motions of resentment. But in that first meeting of Kings when Maedhros took off his crown, Fingon’s traitorous hands remembered what it was to hold him while he slept and to be held, to play the lyre for just one pair of ears, to open a luncheon hamper and to know he had been observed at a hundred different meals in order to be surprised now with all his favorite things. It was so easy to fall back into orbit of each other as if they had never stopped. But how different they are now, with their worries and their guilts and their fears.

Fingon could get out of bed now, but he is still half an hour early for his council meeting by his estimation, so he lays in a tangle of blankets and thinks about his last visit to Himring. Maedhros must not get many visitors, he supposes, on account of the uninviting weather. And the uninviting company, his brain supplies uncharitably. Winter lasts much of the year in Himring. The snow is thick and unforgiving, and Himring is the last outpost of warmth in that desolate land. If Maedhros was not well-matched for the landscape, he is well-matched for the task at hand, and what it means to hold the Northern border. He is solid. He is a good soldier. 

Maedhros is unmoored, in some ways. Most people would say he burns with a quiet fire; Fingon supposes there is a degree of truth there, except he sees Maedhros when no one else does, sees the unfocused look in his eyes. He knows he forgets to light the hearth in his quarters - the time Fingon dropped in unannounced, the flagstones were freezing, and Maedhros moved in that deliberate careful way that indicated his back was aching again. When pressed on the subject, Maedhros could not quite quell the impression that rolled down their bond that perhaps the cold was deserved, or at least not unwelcome.

He does not know the last time he saw Maedhros angry; Maedhros does not get angry, per se, but rather quiet, deliberate. Even when he is Hunting (deer and fresh devils), he moves with the quiet deliberateness that Fingon recognizes from the Ice: he moves as one who presses on not out of pleasure but because there is nothing else to do.

Himring isn’t all that bad, he supposes, provided you’re indoors. When Fingon visits, there is music in the halls, a fire in the hearth, and venison on the table. Over a pitcher of wine Maedhros will begin to smile, the stiff lines of his frame softening as he falls back into that old orbit. 

It is odd, Fingon thinks, looking up at the gilded cornices on the ceiling, that when he visits, Maedhros shifts his life around him. In Valinor, Fingon was always the younger one, orbiting Maedhros. Now Maedhros orbits him. Even in those moments of happiness, when they wrestle each other down into a pile of furs, discarding clothing with whispers and laughter, Maedhros is so different from the time when he was held in obligation to no one, least of all to Fingon. Fingon supposes they will always do things for the joy of the doing, as they are principally beings governed by their pleasures, but now Maedhros worships, even if the bindings of his obligation are ones of love. 

Maedhros will worship if worship is required of him.


	4. Where the Spirit Meets the Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros realizes what Doom means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, this is the chapter that describes the Nirnaeth, so the content warnings for gore apply here

_ I'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones.  _

(He did not understand before - but now, to see the gates he hates so much open their dark jaws, to see the tongues of flame that roll out between its teeth, he knows the meaning of Doom for his people. The drums - no, footfalls - of those most ancient servants of evil herald a fate he has witnessed before, will be forced to witness again.)

Maedhros knows something is wrong almost immediately. Caranthir's rear guard is set upon by traitors, and the formation of the Eastern host dissolves into a seething mass of screams, horseflesh, and steel. Maedhros wills Fingon to hold, hold just a little longer, and then he will be there. He should have anticipated that Fingon is governed by love and duty measure for measure as much as he is governed by good sense. 

Fingon's men break rank on the western border, and because Fingon is a good King, and a good person, he charges after them. Fingon thrums with a wild energy, with the will tear the gates of Angband down with his hands. He looks so much like his father as he surges across the field. Maedhros can feel the trust he sends along the bond; even now, he believes that Maedhros will come to him. 

If he were a good leader or a good person, Maedhros thinks to himself, he would stay here and aid Caranthir. It is because he is none of these things, he reasons, that he is justified in sending a runner to Maglor with orders to split their host. He leaves Maglor in the east and himself takes a party through the flank of Angband's army. He cannot see Fingon, but at least if he gets there in time he can replace him on the frontline. Maedhros knows it is Fingon’s duty to be a good leader, to be a good person; Maedhros knows it is his own duty to be a good soldier. It is his duty to be in front, to lead that charge, to take the full force of the mouth of Angband.

He's halfway there when a horn rings out across the field. The call is followed by the thunder of hooves, the shine of a thousand silver helms reflecting the light of the sun. Turgon's host sweeps down onto the plains. It seems that hope, for at least a heartbeat, is not unreasonable - and that is when he hears the boom of great drums issue forth from the gates. Maedhros can see the wall of fire that advances onto the field. He knows that fire, those footfalls that shake the earth. It is that centuries-old fear, from the shores of Mithrim. 

It is then he breaks away from his company. He has to get there. Turgon will be outnumbered, and all their host slain. Or at least, that is what Maedhros tells himself, because the alternative is to acknowledge that he has thrown away his battle plans, his post, and his retinue in a move that makes him a good husband but a very bad soldier. 

The field is more mud and gore than proper earth, with corpses sinking into the muck. His mare catches her hoof on something, corpse or stone, elf or goblin. Maedhros can feel the moment before her leg snaps, when time stands still. Then the pitch of the world shifts and the sky is the ground. Such a good horse, her last effort is to throw Maedhros clear of her tumbling weight. He is not going to get there in time, on foot, with ten thousand goblins in his way. Maedhros throws open his bond, screaming for Fingon to retreat. Maedhros stops fighting, just running across the pitted and bloody earth as fast as he can. He dimly realizes in his panic that he is screaming aloud as well, tearing his throat hoarse. 

Maedhros can feel Fingon’s presence on the field through ósanwe. He can feel his strength, and his anger. But fatigue weighs heavily on Fingon, and as his guard falls one by one, his fear grows. In the terror and the crush of bodies, shoving against ally and enemy, Maedhros can’t see Fingon - but he can see that ring of fire closing in, that snapping tongue of flame. Maedhros can’t see Fingon, caught as he is in a sea of hair and iron and blood, but he can feel the moment their bond snaps. 

The shock forces the air from his lungs like a physical blow. It forces him onto his knees. There in the dirt and filth, he can hear the keening that rises up toward the carrion crows, a mourning cry. He cannot move. He is trapped beneath the lidless sky. The orcs are too busy pursuing Turgon’s retreating forces to notice one pathetic elf, covered in gore, screaming incoherently, clawing at the ground. 

Maedhros knows nothing more, and when he wakes, it is night. He can see elven lights at the borders of the field, the clink of armor as people search for their dead. The Enemy’s forces have retreated inside the walls; crushing the High King into the mud is enough for Morgoth, who shows no desire to route the final pathetic stragglers. Maedhros knows this is not a mercy. It is perhaps the worst thing in the world to wake to the stench of death and the pillaging of carrion birds, knowing that one lives while somewhere on the battlefield lies the last hope of Middle Earth. 

He struggles to get up; the fighting had continued around Maedhros when he had passed out, and he was partially buried under lifeless bodies. In this light, when blood looks black, it is almost impossible to tell elvish hair from orcish. He has to find Fingon's body, for he can't bear for him to be taken by the Enemy. As he makes his way toward the gate, Maedhros scans the walls for sentinels. Surely they can see him coming. But as he draws closer, and still the gates remain dark and silent. 

Fingon’s standard flaps against the night wind; It is torn and stained. His body lies in an almost perfect, clear circle of earth. It is as if it was known that this was a sacred place, a desecrated place, and nothing was willing to touch it. Maedhros doesn't want to look. He must look. There is a hole inside of him weeping tears and blood. He falls to his knees. He can't stop himself from screaming as he gathers his husband's remains into his arms. This dented armor, these cold hands, the ruin of this breast bone. Now he knows. It doesn't matter if the Enemy can see him; the Enemy knows it can do nothing to him that is worse than this. All has come to ruin, and it is all his fault. 

Maedhros takes one last moment of comfort holding his husband. Beneath the sweat and blood, his hair still smells like the oil Maedhros had helped him work into it on wash day, the day before the worst day of his life. Then he pushes against the force that wants to suck him down into the mud, into the mud with Fingon. With great effort, he stands, Fingon in his arms, and begins the march back to the Eastern Host. 

Torches pick their way through the charnel fields, calling out names, flames guttering in the chill air. One of these torches is calling his name. It stops, then breaks into a run. The light glances unpleasantly in a beam off Fingon’s breastplate, and Maedhros shields his eyes in his stiff shoulder. When he looks up, the torch has Maglor’s face, gore-streaked, tear-stained. Maglor lays a hand on his shoulder, and Maedhros feels some wild animal surging in his gut, bucking against salve and comfort as if they were poisons he was determined to avoid even through death. He avoids Maglor’s eyes and continues on towards the camp. 

He must wash and dress his husband’s body. He must dig his husband’s grave. He does not deserve the tisane Celegorm offers him for a dreamless sleep; he pours it out into the weeds.

Maedhros dreams of Alqualondë, that first terrible day when he mixed elvish blood with the sand and the sea. For a sea-faring people, the Teleri had fought long and fierce, though they had only bows and abalone knives in comparison to Noldorin swords, forged for death. He dreams of fighting for his life, knowing he is doing the worst deed of his life and knowing he can’t stop. He and his brothers are alone, pinned down between the city and the harbor. He had not been sure that Fingolfin would come, and he thought mildly, spirit disconnected from the violent self-preservative mechanics of the body, that he may die here. And then, he dreams of the horn calling out over the bluff. 

In his dream, Fingon leads the charge down the hill, shining in a corona of a hundred torches as he outpaces his father. Over the noise of battle and the pounding of hooves, Maedhros can hear his battle cry, see his face full of terror and anger. Of course, righteous anger only lasts so long, and even less when it’s built on a lie. 

Maedhros dreams of trust eroded. 

Fingon refuses to speak after the battle. In his mind’s eye, there is still sand in the air and blood in the sand and everything is full of screams. His face is horribly blank, and he simply stares at the hull of the swan ship when Maedhros leads him inside to wash. 

In his dream, Maedhros completes the motions of removing his own armor, then Fingon's. He moves mechanically as he sits Fingon down and cleans his face. When he rinses the cloth in the basin, death blooms in the clear water, as well as shame. Fingon doesn’t speak. Maedhros unbinds his hair and washes it, re-dresses him. Still Fingon does not speak. Maedhros tucks him into a bedroll, and Fingon stares at the ceiling. That horrible blank look sets something nameless growing in Maedhros’ stomach, something dark and wild and terrified.

Maedhros needs to keep busy. He has to feel useful, and he doesn't trust himself to speak while holding down this otherworldly scream. In any case, nothing he could say can justify what he has required Fingon to do for him. He cleans and oils each plate and piece of leather, then wraps them in rags and stows them away. When he finally moves to wash himself, he doesn't even bother to fetch new water. He struggles out of his clothes and throws them in a heap on the floor. Then he scrubs at his face, tries to undo his blood-caked braids and can't, curses, leaves them half-unbound and filthy, and tries to scrub the blood off his hands. He can't, and his hands begin to shake, and that cry rises out of him - slowly and gaining volume, building from a low growl and ending in a wail. 

He's only halted by the brush of Fingon's consciousness against his, and then by his hands against his face. Fingon takes the rag from Maedhros. He gently cleans his hands with soap. Then he strips him naked and cleans the rest of him, wraps him in a fur throw, and tips him back against the basin to wash his hair. He uses oil to get his braids out, and he washes and dries and Maedhros’s hair. They sleep wrapped in each other’s arms. 

When he wakes, Fingon is not in his arms. And he never will be, this side of the sea. Because Fingon came for him when he most needed it, but Maedhros couldn’t do the same.


	5. Roots in my Dreamland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> descensus averno facilis est, I guess. Maedhros is having a rough go of it, and so is the rest of Beleriand.

_ I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland. _

Daily the Oath gnaws inside him, promising to fill the hole left by his broken bond. Isn’t it easier to become the beast that fights even when pinned down? The beast that chews off its own injured limb? The beast that bites the hand that feeds it?

He loses one set of children in the woods. He dreams of them and what Fingon would say. After the Nirnaeth, he hacked off his braids with a dull hunting knife. He cannot imagine someone else braiding his hair, putting oil and pins in it, so it is better to be this unrecognizable creature, the newest terror that moves in the dark.

The second set, he almost kills. Or, Maglor almost kills them. They almost kill the twins. Now they are eating stew in an adjoining tent, wrapped in clean linens. They look at him in fear, and he feels that beast nipping at his insides, so he avoids their eyes. He wants so badly, and hates himself for wanting. 

In the day, he forms a half-truce with the twins in which he will hunt for them, guard them, teach them to fight with skills he foolishly hopes they will never need to use; when they cry in the night, he sends Maglor to comfort them. They do not need a beast for a father. In the night, he dreams of the times Fingon visited him at Himring, when his promises to be a protector meant something, when he was not plagued by an incessant hunger. 

In his dreams, Maedhros sees Fingon in the winter marketplace, Fingon with his clothes askew and Maedhros between his legs, Fingon stealing the furs in his sleep. Maedhros wakes but he is still dreaming, and he dreams that Fingon has gone again back to his father’s palace and his hearth is cold and his ragged hair goes unbraided out of ease and lassitude and he hunts in the snow-covered woods but he doesn’t find what he is looking for, he never finds what he is looking for. Maedhros wakes and Fingon is truly gone, and he is hungry.


	6. Your Ivy Grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Age ends, and so does Maedhros' story this side of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for a brief description of suicidal ideation. If you need to skip this chapter, the chapter summary above sums the plot up.

_ My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you.  _

There is a nér climbing the mountain. 

his hair is unbound. The ruin of his left hand weeps blood and clear fluid, it hisses and bubbles where it comes in contact with the glowing jewel he clutches. He carries no torch. That gem is the only light in these forests; the owls watch that shifting radiance as it drags itself upward. The nér is tired, very tired. He is almost there now; he can see that glow on the sky, feel the heat rolling down the ridge. Soon, he will not be tired anymore. 

There is a nér climbing the mountain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I held off until the end to make a big note.
> 
> I didn’t want Fingon to feel like a cookie cutout here, and I don’t think that happened? But I am aware that this fic is largely from Maedhros’ perspective. I may write a companion piece to this that is more from Fingon’s point of view. Also, let me know if you want to see a Valinor epilogue; I felt that this was getting pretty long and it wasn’t necessarily in the spirit of my inspiration to include a happy ending, but I have seriously been considering adding an epilogue chapter.
> 
> Regarding characterization, I think Maedhros and Fingon are driven by a sense of duty, but the Oath and Feanor pull Maedhros in a dark direction, whereas Fingon's temperament drives him into danger through a desire for reconciliation or peace (thangorodrim, the nirnaeth). I wanted to explore Maedhros, who I think is strong-willed for resisting the oath as long as he did, but who perhaps thinks of himself as weak-willed for not doing more. I also wanted to lean into developing Fingon's character, someone who has gone above and beyond to earn the title "valiant" but is probably scared shitless and perhaps does things he has reservations about simply because "he has to because no one else can/will" (thangorodrim). 
> 
> I think Russingon is a pretty healthy relationship, but I think at times it borders on co-dependency; I think both of them occupy positions of power simply because they know no one else will, and a lot of their relationship revolves around not wanting that power, saying "please take it from me, I give it to you." Am I going to write a fic at some point a fic exploring their relationship on a deeper level and how this manifests in their sex life? Yes (at which point one might ask, "is this at all informed by your life?" And I'll just airdrop that *you've got me there* reaction image). Maedhros casting aside his crown is my bread and butter and I have already examined what that says about me lol. 
> 
> I really hope this doesn’t come across as me woobifying Maedhros, but I really do think that people with too much responsibility for them to process end up finding coping mechanisms where they don’t have to be in control for once. Again, inspired by my own mental health? yes.
> 
> As far as marriage and sex are concerned, I know this fic isn’t in keeping with LACE but I generally think that LACE can suck my butt; as much as it might interest me to do an exploration of how LACE might affect elvish culture and norms, I really don’t prefer it for fic that isn’t like, anthropological or whatever lol. I hope the tone for the marriage scene was less “sex is necessary for marriage” (bc it’s not lol) and more “we’re making - if not a bad decision - a rushed and reckless one.”


End file.
